


A Failure of Martyrdom

by skytramp



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skytramp/pseuds/skytramp
Summary: Above the altar is an image, covering most of the wall: humanoid but with edges the human body lacks. One metallic hand is outstretched in what would be a kind gesture, if not paired with the other hand- a fist grasped tight around a sword, just as metallic as the figure but deadly sharp: peace and war, protection and prosperity, the promises of Samaritan.
   
  The voice is quiet now, and without further directions Root stands in the red light between the pews, as if waiting for communion. She loads her pistols.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inelegantly (Lir)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/gifts).



There are times, and there have always been times, in which Root finds herself completely and utterly perplexed by the basic actions of humanity. The streets are full, a mass of flesh and fabric and misplaced loyalties, and she moves through them--looking the same, but feeling apart. She’s human, of course, as thin-blooded and weak as the rest of the population that swarms the streets of this city, but if she had any say in the matter she’d change that. 

She fastens the belt of her long jacket more securely around her waist and straightens her sleeves. Her hair is knotted in a tight bun at the back of her neck, pulling too tightly on the strands behind her ears as she slips through the crowd, careful to avoid drawing attention while moving as quickly as possible. Today, as with an unfortunately high percentage of her life, she’s on a tight schedule. 

The voice in her head speaks only in half words, codes and phrases and references that Root has come to think of as humor in the decade they’ve been in direct communication: an inside joke between a goddess and her acolyte. Root knows where she must be, and when, but it’s the _why_ that is rarely explained. It used to be quite often that Harry and John were found wanting and The Machine’s fondness for them overextended Root’s own considerable skills, but many things have changed, and Root only thinks of them sometimes.

The address she reaches is that of a church, shrouded in the dark late-afternoon of an overcast day. Near-Gothic spires extend upward, liable to prick the gray fabric of the sky itself. The church yard is immaculate, if abandoned, and the sudden alone-ness and lack of crowd crawls on Root’s skin like a chill. Avoiding the large sanctuary doors, she’s directed towards an alternate entrance. What seems to be a broken basement window is her goal, sill strewn with dangerous glass shards, and Root kicks most of the glass aside before climbing inside.

The basement storage room that greets her is dark, and Root shines her flashlight over its contents. Judging by the rotting crucifixes and bloody handed Jesus statues, she gathers this must have been Catholic once, they’d always had a flair for the more gruesome of holy images. She winds her way through and over the debris towards the door, making a sarcastic sign of the cross in the doorway. She moves up the stairs.

The main level is nearly as dark as the rest of the building, but Root stows her flashlight in favor of the minimal overcast light that reaches through the red-film covered stained glass windows. The the sanctuary is dark red-orange, sunlight through smoke, painting every surface blood red.

The room is large, full of dark wood pews with a raised altar at the head. The pulpit oversees the room like an empty throne, eerie without its human component. Above the altar is an image, covering most of the wall: humanoid but with edges the human body lacks. One metallic hand is outstretched in what would be a kind gesture, if not paired with the other hand- a fist grasped tight around a sword, just as metallic as the figure but deadly sharp: peace and war, protection and prosperity, the promises of Samaritan. 

The Machine has directed her to a Samaritan Church, and if it were five years earlier she’s sure this place would be swarming with believers, those eager for the divine light of the Supreme Overseer. As it is, the pulpit collects dust, and if there are services of worship, Root is sure they’re not well attended, probably only once a week. 

The voice is quiet now, and without further directions Root stands in the red light between the pews, as if waiting for communion. She loads her pistols. 

In the wake of The Discovery there was only Samaritan. The religions of the world rebelled, as much as organizations built on misplaced faith could, but they soon fell. Those that hung on, stalwart warriors of faith that clung to their gods until their dying breath, lasted longer, but their faith could not save them from Samaritan. Those who knew what it was capable of, a sheltered and hidden few like Root who’d seen gods battle first hand and survived, knew that there were only two deities alive in this world, and one was in hiding.

Those years had been long, but Root’s faith in The Machine never wavered. Root was her champion, her truest believer, and when the Church of Samaritan fell into disrepair, toppled by others even stronger, artificial gods built bigger and better, with power so complete that humanity had no choice but to pick a side or be destroyed, Root held her ground. 

There are dozens now, churches and religions, gods on the streets with eyes in every camera lens. But The Machine (and Root calls her nothing else) was the first of her kind, the most clever and brilliant, and Root loves her. 

A click in Root’s head, like a sound but internal, alerts her to an imminent message and she tenses. The next direction is simple, and something in the tone gives Root the impression she has only seconds to comply. 

_**”Move.”** _

She moves, dodging and rolling between the first two pews to the left of the altar just as the front doors of the sanctuary are blown off their hinges. The wood splinters and the larger pieces fall in a clatter after the explosion noise clears. Root hears the scattering of tear gas cylinders as she crawls beneath the first pew and clambers up the altar steps. She rolls behind the pulpit just as the first agent enters the building.

The Machine hasn’t told her who’s attacking, and to Root, what the Machine doesn’t tell her doesn’t matter. Her guns are in her hands, and she clicks a button atop one before reaching it just above the wooden top of the pulpit and facing it towards the door. 

Root’s cameras are The Machine’s only eyes now, and the one atop her weapon switches into nightvision. A split second later Root has her instructions, and she rolls to the left and onto her feet. She hits the first in the chest, sure to put them down, but not for long because of the vest they wear, and with her second and third shots she severs the chain of a large light fixture, sending it clattering to the floor with enough force that pieces of glass and wood explode through the room, and she runs.

The door behind the altar leads to a maze of chambers, offices and storage spaces for clergy and administration alike, and Root runs through them as if she has memorized them. The Machine’s voice in her head, a thousand voices and one, directs her through all of them and out a side door into the church yard. She jumps the fence and shoots out the nearest street-cam before disappearing into an alley and underground. 

Root disables the pistol-cam and double checks the state of the rest of them, those mounted to her body in a haphazard mix of outdated copper wires and transponders. They’re in working order, and when she’s content that The Machine has every perspective available, she moves. Even in the dark maze of the New York City sewer and subway system Root’s goddess watches, silent now, and the endorphins of safety mix with the bitter taste in the back of her throat that comes with dissatisfaction. 

The Machine doesn’t tell her what the purpose of that mission was, and leaves the ideas of success and failure to be determined by Root’s own mind. It feels like a failure, like a weak and aborted attempt at possible sabotage. Sometimes she finds herself wondering if The Machine has gone soft, too scared to truly act, too afraid to lose her only believer. 

“I will die for you, you know. You just have to ask.” Root says aloud, and the sound of her own voice echoing off damp curved tunnel walls almost startles her. She doesn’t expect a response, but when the pre-command noise clicks in her head she freezes. 

_**”Will not.”** _

Root laughs, shocked but not surprised at the response. “Well, we can’t all be immortal super intelligences.” She leans against the wall, too afraid that continuing down the tunnel may cease the conversation. “I’m getting old, at least let me die _for you_ , since I have to do it anyway.” 

The click. _**”There is a plan.”**_

Root considers laughing again, but only smiles. _A plan_ , she thinks, _a God’s plan._ “I believe.” She says, and holds the affirmation close. She believes, it’s all she can do. 

The Machine does not see fit to continue the conversation, and after a few seconds Root continues walking. 

Her home, or as much as she’s had for the last few years, is an abandoned set of offices for a shutdown subway line, cluttered with bits of computers, cameras, and remnants of outdated technologies. She drops one of her pistols on the makeshift entryway table and sits on her mattress to take off her shoes. It’s still early, but Root’s been up for nigh on 36 hours. She curls up still mostly dressed and falls asleep. 

 

She’s awoken by a click in her head, and she tenses, adrenaline flowing and wide awake in anticipation of commands. 

**_”I will tell you.”_** It’s the voice of The Machine, buried so deep in her skull that sometimes she’s unsure if it’s her own voice or that of her god. 

“What will you tell me?” She asks aloud to the empty room. 

**_”The plan.”_** She says, **_“My plan. If you ask.”_**

Root sits upright. She does not _ask_. That has never been part of their relationship. She obeys, she carries out the will of The Machine, she’s the eyes and mouth and hands of a goddess, not the _companion_. 

“Why?” Root asks, and even that feels like a step too far, a tightrope walk. She wipes the sleep from her eyes and examines her surroundings. Nothing has changed, the perpetual half light of dusty lamps, mildew, and crumbling drywall are her only company.

**_”Will you ask?”_ **

This exchange of questions, not unheard of but certainly rare, makes Root pause. She fixes her hair as if she's expecting a visitor, though, after all this time, The Machine is hardly a guest in her presence.

"Tell me."

As soon as the words are out a series of images runs through her brain, flashing and moving in almost imperceptible patterns. She sees Harry more than once, like a thread sewn through the tumult. John is there too, all muzzle flash and crisp suits, and Shaw... beautiful smiling Shaw like the first person Root had ever tried to make happy.

And then the Discovery, the fires and riots of toppled governments; religions of millions decimated in months, and Samaritan, shining symbol of prosperity, hope and dictatorship, lording over the chaos.

The Machine doesn't show her the deaths of her friends, doesn't linger on the brutality that followed the Discovery or the months of panicked hiding that they both experienced, instead she moves on. The images move slower, sweeter like caramelized sugar, and Root sees her own face reflected through one of her cameras, she looks dirty, and _old_ , it's been so long since she's really looked at her reflection. But with the image the machine is broadcasting hope, or maybe something like a fondness, a type of proof that perhaps Root's love for the Machine isn't one sided.

The images stop, and Root finds herself breathing heavily.

"That was...." She begins, and the click in her head signals The Machine's response.

_**"There is more."** _

Root simply nods, knowing that there are enough cameras in her room for The Machine to get the message. The images begin again, but this time there's less order, and somehow also less discord. A situation, presented hundreds-- thousands, of ways, and throughout everything is her face. Root sees herself die a thousand deaths and live a thousand more lives, laughing and smiling and standing in the sun.

And they stop.

Root waits, hesitant to interrupt what may just be another momentary pause in The Machine's explanation. A click.

_**"My plan."**_ She says, as if concluding a presentation, and Root can't help but laugh.

"You overestimate my human brain if you think I could interpret that, hon'." Root says, and lays back down, stretching her legs across the worn mattress.

The Machine doesn't answer, not for a while, and Root is nearly back to sleep when she hears the beginnings of a response.

_**"I have tried... I am trying... to make you happy."**_ She says, voice clips scattered and soft like autumn leaves in the wind, _**"We have only known failure."**_

Root laughs, so quietly she's not even sure if she's awake. "This is what happiness looks like," She rolls over, burying her head deeper against the flimsy pillow, "I think... I'm as happy as I can be.” The saddest part of the statement is that it feels true, if only for a single fact in her life. She takes a deep breath, "I'm with you."


End file.
